


here in ruined halls

by Binario



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Empath!Byleth, Canon Compliant, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route, Fluff and Angst, If YOU are crying and I am crying then who is writing this fic?, Introducing Byleth as the cry pillow of the house, Making everyone emotionally vulnerable and seeing if it somehow solves their problems, Multi, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Pre-Timeskip | Academy Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Yeah you read that right, ish, no beta we die like Glenn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:49:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24373063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Binario/pseuds/Binario
Summary: Byleth chose the Blue Lions. It didn't take long before she realized she was out of her depth.and yet, for them, the world.(In which Byleth's an empath, and it changes surprisingly little)
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/My Unit | Byleth, Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 4
Kudos: 65





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _This_ is Sothis speaking at Byleth
> 
>  _“This”_ is Byleth thinking/talking to Sothis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is, unashamedly, taken from The Edge of Dawn (Seasons of Warfare).
> 
> A dash of Empath!Byleth, Sad Cat House-typical levels of angst at full concentration, a tiny bit of accidental foreshadowing, shake well. Let the pain begin.

Life as a mercenary was simple.

There’s a certain rhythm within a battlefield. The arc of her blade dictates the steps of the intricate dance she performs. One, two, three, a sidestep here. One, two, three, a flash of steel. There’s no time for second thoughts, no moment for hesitation. A battle is brutal and efficient, crystal clear in its wants and needs. Its performers are vibrant in the half second of the engagement, raw with feral emotions during those very few seconds when it is all decided.

She breezes past bandits with the kiss of death held fast in her hands.

She’s a part of and removed when she steps inside the field. She has no color in her gaze, no rush of blood under her skin. Her heart never squirms as the number of her kills increase steadily with every new mission. There’s nothing but the intensity of her goal driving her forward. Foes and allies alike see the wake of a storm in her step.

She wonders, sometimes, what it’s like to fight for the causes that make her prey vibrant – eyes burning bright with passion right before her sword claims their lives. What does revenge feel like, that it makes men press forward when the odds are against them? What’s the meaning of _love_ when it guides your path into the swing of a blade – when it gives you nothing more than a swift, soon-to-be-forgotten death?

After a mission is over, when she sits amongst the merriment of her father’s company, she’ll see the faces of those she felled in battle in the crackling of the campfire. She’ll picture them like her father’s men say they see them and stare into their burning eyes in search for answers. She’s heard tales, when the drink has gone uncontrolled for far too long – long enough that the boisterous laughter simmers down to a haunted contemplation– of the nightmares that plague the sellswords. Shaking hands have retold countless interpretations of the screams that they carry like scars upon their skins, cruxes that will never abandon them. There’s a haunted stupor that descends upon them in those quiet hours. She looks at them, at the fire, at her ever-blood-stained sword, at the smoke rising up into the speckled sky, and just allows herself to _think_.

But here next to the fire, try as she might, her fallen opponents awaken nothing from her ever-still heart.

She paints her youth in a flowing river of blood, yet nothing ever breaks the blankness of her gaze. Her hands never gain the trembling of the mercenaries as the battles won increase winter by winter, summer by summer.

(she could say she longs for it, if only to quell the heaviness of her father’s defeated sighs, but the word has no meaning in her head)

She mentions it to her father, once.

The darkening of his expression is something she’ll keep stored in her memories, a mystery not to be revealed until many more years have come to pass. He always looks pained whenever she brings up something that is not quite normal in her behavior. He will go quiet for a long time, gazing out of the window of their temporary lodgings, eyes lost in the distant darkness. She waits patiently, never pushing for answers full of things she can’t comprehend, never trying to reach out despite something deep inside her mind whispering faintly for her to _try_.

His eventual deflection, when it comes, will not bring her any consolation. But, as is her nature, she was not looking for any words of comfort, just his attention.

Life as a mercenary was simple. She was brought into this life not by choice, and yet it’s all that she is. This is what she understands, the heat of battle, the endless journeys across Fódlan. She comes to know techniques from the farthest reaches of the land and beyond. Jeralt’s mercenary company has the select group of regulars that have traveled with her father since he braved out into the continent. But there’s also the seasonal members, warriors that come and go for short bursts of time. They stay, and she learns from them the dual wielding of the Almyran armies, the roughhousing of the Dagdan bandits, the infallible accuracy of the rogue pirates. They stay, and their experience nurtures the image of the Ashen Demon. There’s no technique she can’t counter when the song of war croons in her ears.

Her father helps her polish her fluidity until there’s nothing more he can teach. She’s come to a point where the newest recruits are now hers to assess. Jeralt’s mercenaries they may be, but _she_ has the final word on who stays and who leaves. Her father offers to guide her tests, but they soon come to discover that this is some other talent of hers. She can see the potential behind a clumsy stance and an affinity in an apparent weakness. When she spars with the recruits it’s like they spill all their story for her to pick apart. Even in this impartial assessment there’s a ruthlessness to her touch, a viciousness like jagged teeth in her stilted commentary.

_The Demon weights your soul with a blade_ , crow the mercenaries to scare off the spineless.

And thus, the Ashen Demon becomes her mask, and whispers of her name send terror through the hearts of men.

\---

The beginning of her end comes with a girl.

It’s a girl in red she saves from certain death. She went into battle with a sense of finality, like when she sees the darkening of the sky late in the afternoon and just knows that the day has come to a close. Every swing of her blade was the last gulp of air. She tore through the bandits with the reaper of the unknown hanging from her neck. The lords she’s protecting – _children, yet lacking the spark of naivety that should come with a sheltered life_ – stared after her in muted surprise. She’d flow through the battle like there was not a blade of grass out of her grasp – like no arrow flew without her foresight, no drop of blood was unaccounted for. Their compliance to her command was much too effortless in the midst of battle, as if there was simply no other alternative than to bow down to a wraith of war. It makes her frown, this unnatural servitude coming from lordlings born and bred for leadership, and she files away the thought for later.

The last second of her life was a blazing fire across her back.

It’s a girl with a mane of green that extinguishes the embers of her borrowed time. Her commanding voice is the perennial echo that has always been buried in Byleth’s dreams. There’s a trace of her laughter in the hazy memories of childhood, a scent of her presence when she’s sitting alone in the candlelight. A hint of her is entwinned with every vivid recollection of scrapped knees and calloused hands. What is real when you dream of dragons and armies? When the nights are filled with visions of an emerald hall under the stars calling out year after year for something she cannot name?

Her words are both an invitation and an ultimatum delivered before a throne.

“ _Drift through the flow of time to find the answers that you seek_ ,” Sothis says, more to herself than to Byleth, an empress in an endless kingdom outside of time. The light of the room is sucked into the pentagram that condenses before her. This girl, this impossibly familiar girl extends her hand to the Ashen Demon, and with it she offers her the future.

Byleth’s eyes glint with the reflection of bright magic. “But what are the questions that I must ask?”

The girl smiles at her and Byleth feels like she’s falling. “ _That’s where you begin.”_

\---

Afterwards, when her adjutants are safe and bubbling with questions, she allows herself a second of introspection while staring at inquisitive eyes. There’s anticipation making her fingers tap repeatedly against the sheath of her dagger.

_Tap tap tap._

Guarded emerald eyes. A smile more a weapon than an honest mirror.

_Tap tap tap._

Focused lavender eyes. An aura like a lioness out on the hunt.

_Tap tap tap._

Faint darkness behind bright blue eyes. Her fingers freeze midtap. A moment of stillness takes even her breath away until her ears pop and something in her heart _lurches_ –

It’s so jarring that she stumbles on her next step. Her blood comes alive like she’s back with the bandit and the axe tearing through her side. There’s a pang in her chest that feels like the echo of the wound that is no more. The three lords hurry to offer their help, and she waves them off with a distracted motion. She has no name for what took over her, no recognition for the unfamiliar tightness in her lungs. The words that come to mind have no real meaning, no real significance in her life. She remembers them in the vision of the divine warrior clutching the dark sword like a cherished belonging and she feels sick.

Sothis hums from her green throne but is otherwise unmoved.

She’s mentally going through all of the symptoms for the illnesses she knows of as the lordlings resume their bickering. Her pulse, erratic like the inner turmoil and heavy weight that cuts her breath short, tears through her veins like she’s swallowed fire. She entertains the idea that she might be poisoned, likely an unknown malady from a knife she failed to evade, and the subsequent need to tell her father at some point, but her lungs are suddenly freed without warning. She takes in a large gulp of air and composes herself on the exhale, feels her pulse calm along the receding of the buzzing turmoil inside.

She feels all their eyes on her, but she’s grown impervious to searching gazes.

There’s a sense of foreboding when the monastery peaks out in the distance. The world fades away until all she can see is the colored glass, glinting in the distance. The Demon in her has a white-knuckled grip on the pommel of her sword.

\---

Later on, after she’s been privy to the unnerving intensity of the Archbishop and they’re finally led away to their quarters, she shares her experience with her father. He looks at her with something fierce rising in his eyes. She asks, haltingly, if the churning caused by those sea eyes could be named sorrow.

He won’t stop looking at her, but his tone reveals that he’s once more withholding his true meaning. “I have never known you to be melancholic, kid.”

“Will it pass?”

“In time,” he says, but the wry twist of his mouth seems unsure.

\---

She stores sorrow in the empty cavity of her heart and something deep inside tentatively sparks to life.

\---

Life as a mercenary was simple. But that life is over, and the firm ground under her feet has disappeared to leave her tumbling blindly.

She loops around the monastery while the words _teaching, teaching, teaching_ thunder in her ears. What can she do for these children? What could she possibly teach them that they need to know to lead countries?

That morning, she had looked at her father, so very close to outright _begging_ for the first time in her life. Jeralt had looked conflicted, the instinct to run from an enemy that outmatches them overpowered by the weariness weighing him down. He had smiled crookedly at her, but his hand on her shoulder had squeezed almost desperately. She had taken an order for what it was, and thus her day is spend slipping into an act she’s unfamiliar with. She itches for the weight of a weapon in her hand, feeling far too exposed before razor-sharp smiles and honeyed words.

Edelgard had given her a brief, on-point summary of her housemates, but had spoken with the coldness of a war general. There was a particular glint in her gaze that made Byleth’s instincts bare their teeth at the girl. The mercenary turned soon-to-be-teacher had excused herself with a politeness that felt too forced on her monotone. The Imperial Princess had narrowed her eyes, as if she were looking at her and, at the same time, at something far beyond, but had returned the polite dismissal neutrally.

Claude had described his classmates with a grin and the insincere flowery familiarity of someone used to sticking to the shadows. Every single one of Byleth’s assessing questions had been rerouted back to herself like they were playing chess with secrets. Whereas Edelgard had looked at her like she expected Byleth to bare her story on her own accord, the sharp curve of Claude’s grin had the promise of a dangerous enemy should she fail to find his rhythm. She had tolerated the boy’s proving inquiries until she could no longer keep her cordial mask from withering away.

Dimitri came last, and the brightening of his blue eyes did nothing to quell the brief brush of the intruding despair that sprang on her. She did not stumble under its weight – she had to clench her teeth so tightly her jaw tinged in protest. The _thing_ grabbed weakly at her lungs before falling in deep slumber once more.

“Dizzy spell?” he asks ever so kindly, guiding her to stand underneath the shadow of an archway.

“Nothing concerning. I must be more fatigued than I realized.” She takes a deep, steadying breath, and launches her inquiry for a third time. Dimitri answers readily, if somewhat embarrassed when he has to describe what he perceives as an undesirable trait. Every new student is spoken off so brightly, even those whom the prince admits not to know too well. She catches the light quaver in his tone when he mentions some –Felix, Sylvain, Dedue, Ingrid– and the softening when he has to assess others –Mercedes, Ashe, Annette– under her guiding questions. The more he speaks, the more detailed a picture inside her head she starts to build.

Sothis chuckles softly.

_So, you have decided_ , the girl leans back on her throne, hand cupping her cheek.

That evening, when she voices her claim on the Blue Lions, her father looks at her knowingly.

\---

“Manuela?” Her voice rings through the office, and she’s surprised to detect a slight wavering in it.

_Don’t be nervous about it, they did offer, didn’t they?_

_I’m not nervous,_ she frowns, and then she’s quick to school down her expression as Manuela looks up from her book. The woman quickly snaps it closed and buries in into a drawer. She raises to smile at Byleth with much less intensity than she did earlier in the day.

“Yes dear? What can I help you with?”

Byleth looks down to the ground. Looks back at the woman getting increasingly more uncomfortable. “You offered earlier to clear my doubts about being a teacher.”

“Ah, of course,” she gestures towards a chair while she sits back down behind her desk. “What do you wish to know about?”

Byleth takes the seat, pulling the chair closer to the table so that she can place her hands on it comfortably. She wonders if she’ll get an office like this now that she’s a professor. “What exactly am I going to be teaching?”

Manuela looks momentarily taken back. “Pardon?”

“I’m a teacher, I’m supposed to…teach them,” Byleth adds haltingly. “But no one told me what I’m going to be teaching them about.”

Manuela stares at her blankly for a few seconds. Her expression slowly starts to slide into mild panic. She takes a few bracing breaths before clasping her hands together tightly and tucking them under her chin. “Byleth, do you have any teaching experience at all?”

Byleth thinks back at the mercenary company. She opens her mouth.

“Aside from anything mercenary-related,” Manuela hurries to add.

She closes her mouth.

The woman purses her lips and forces out a long exhale. “Let’s backtrack a little bit, shall we? What do you feel confident in teaching about?”

Byleth feels a new type of tightness in her lungs. She chooses to focus on a spot just above Manuela’s left shoulder to force it to leave her. The sensation lingers for a while, clinging resolutely to her as if challenging, and then retreats back into whatever corner it inhabits like a wounded beast.

When Manuela shifts uncomfortably under her gaze, Byleth realizes she has yet to answer the question.

“…sword?”

Sothis sighs.

“Oh dear,” Manuela buries her face in her hands.

\---

Her first formal meeting with her new House is not what she expected.

Annette – small and bubbly, hair like warm fire –stumbles her way through an apology for treating her so casually. This inspires a discussion about formal behavior that is cut off by the blunt challenge from the long-haired boy – wolfish eyes, voice infused with a low growl – that she would come to know as Felix. The conversation gains more and more volume until they are all barely keeping themselves from shouting at each other, Dimitri’s embarrassed flush deepening as he unsuccessfully attempts to placate his classmates. All in all, it challenges all previous experience she has had with the nobility so far, giving this professorship a new layer of complexity she feels even more unprepared for.

_But what were you expecting?_

Byleth gazes upon her bickering class and their mismatched personalities, a sharp buzz of _something_ filling her lungs with water. _Everything and nothing. These are but children that I am expected to lead and guide towards whichever paths they choose to follow._

_Poetic, aren’t we?_ Sothis yawns, curling in her throne in a way that looks distressingly uncomfortable to Byleth. _Will you impart your newfound artistry upon your children?_

Byleth did not deign that with a response.

She turns her attention back to her pupils to find that they are all staring at her intently. Shuffling her weight, stance still coiled and alert, she utters a sharp, “Dismissed”.

Her class looks somewhat disappointed, but she has already left for her quarters.

\---

"I don’t know what I’m doing", she confesses to her father in the privacy of his office. _His office! How many more things had he been hiding behind his faraway gazes?_

Jeralt sighs and turns resigned eyes upon her. “I know, kid. I know. But we can’t leave.”

_Not yet_ is left unspoken.

\---

It is Sylvain –keen brown eyes, the blazing sunset on his hair– who, unknowingly, pushes her to make an effort with her new House. The delight on Annette’s cheerful agreement is enough to calm the trembling unease of making the request in the first place.

Sothis finds it hilarious. _Hah! You march into battle with unruffled impassiveness, but a simple dinner invitation has you quaking in your shoes? You truly are less than a child!_

Annette brings along another of her students. Kind, infinitely gentle Mercedes repeats her name with a smile as soon as she catches her Professor’s minuscule hesitation. Her two students immediately start chattering animatedly, jumping topics from cats to best recipes for cakes to new gossip while she struggles to answer when she is included in the conversation.

“What was living as a mercenary like, Professor?” And there are the questions that she finds easier to answer, if not equally frustrating.

(frustration goes right beside sorrow and the embers inside flare)

“It was a job.”

A blink. Expectant stares.

“We traveled around a lot?” At that, they seem to perk up. Annette claps excitedly, almost knocking her glass off the table. “Have you been all over Fódlan, then?”

Byleth thinks of rain and snow, of watching people change as they walk from town to town, yet their problems remain the same. “Yes, I have.”

“I’m sure you have seen many wonderful things during your travels,” Mercedes says after taking a spoonful of sorbet. Her eyes crinkle with pleasure. “Do you have a favorite city, Professor?”

“No.” Sothis screams at her to stop being dense. She tries sending her back the impression of a raised eyebrow, which makes the girl seethe on her throne. “I… liked the sea, I think. Not one particular city just… the sea.”

“I went to Derdriu once! The sun made the water sparkle as far as the eye could see. There were so many ships docked at the port filled with crates and spices – I wanted to stay browsing there forever,” Annette sighs dreamily. “Mercie have you been to the sea? Oh, Professor, can we go on a mission that takes us there? I’m sure just the smell of sea spray could put everyone in high spirits!”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Byleth offers, but she doesn’t think they are ready for a mission involving such a long march. Perhaps if she trains them on riding? Flying has its merits, faster transportation and a wider range of movement, except it leaves them more vulnerable.

But, ah, she is supposed to get to know her students, isn’t she? They are probably expecting a more open answer than that, and not a tactical analysis like the one she is building. She places down her cutlery on her plate. “I’ll ask tomorrow about the mission plan for the month.”

_You are impossible_ , Sothis sighs.

Annette and Mercedes don’t seem to mind her short response, however, and dinner passes surprisingly amicably.

It’s at the end of their time together, when they are pilling their dishes together to carry them back into the kitchens, that Byleth discovers her first foothold in her professorship.

Mercedes grabs the top portion of the pile of dishes that Annette has acquired. The young redhead had finished dinner first and, unveiling the first of many traits that Byleth will be adding in her brand-new journal (she thoughtfully writes down “overachiever” when she retires to her quarters later on), picks up all of the abandoned plates from neighbor tables. “My, Annie, you sure seem enthusiastic today.”

Annette’s tower of dishes wobbles a little as they lose their uppermost weight, but still hold steady in her arms. “Ah! I just can’t help it! Professor, we should eat together again. It certainly makes you seem more approachable.”

The girl squeaks in terror, the tower leaning precariously to the side. “Not that you are unapproachable! That’s not what I’m saying! It’s just that– you don’t– I think that–”

“What Annie’s trying to say–” Mercedes reaches out and stabilizes the tower carefully. “–is that we barely know you, Professor. It would be wonderful if we could all get to know each other better. It would make classes more enjoyable; don’t you think?”

And Byleth gets and idea.

\---

It’s Monday, it’s very early in the last week of the month, and her students are looking at her with various degrees of enthusiasm. They go from ecstatic (in what she wants to assume is the highest form of happiness from a boy such as _Felix_ , if the lack of a snarl is anything to go by) to reluctantly compliant (which in Mercedes manifests as the tired smile of a nap interrupted). Dimitri had marched them into the classroom a couple of minutes ago, only to follow dumbly behind their teacher as she walked resolutely _away_ from the chalkboard. When they neared the training grounds, some half-hearted protests came out of the group, only to be quieted down by a harsh growl from a practically glowing Felix. 

This, she understands. The weight of a weapon, the story behind a stance. She’s found familiar territory in these strange lands.

They all stretch and warm up, and it’s no surprise to her that the first to volunteer for an assessment is Felix. She sees the aborted motion of Dimitri’s hand, though, and calls him up for second in line. One by one, they all grab their preferred weapon and file out of the arena. Byleth grabs a training sword of her own, testing its balance with a few experimental swings. “I’ll be observing your skills to understand where I’m starting with you. Please, try to fight as you would normally confront an enemy, not how you think I’ll be more impressed.”

There’s a chorus of agreements coming from the sidelines, and she turns her attention to Felix, standing impatiently on his side of the arena. “Best out of three. Getting pushed out of the field is an automatic loss. Immobilization and a certain death blow are the only winning conditions.”

Felix’ eyes gleam with interest and he nods.

The fight begins.

Felix fights with a focused hostility. She’s seen his type before, has turned away warriors with half his skill, and she knows that the occasional stumble in his step can be polished into a predator’s grace. If she can file down the edges of his aggression, center him so that only determination shines through, this boy can become a deadly fighter; fast, yet powerful.

She easily dodges his attacks, only grunting slightly when his crest flares to live as he swings the blade. There’s raw potential here, a natural talent that she’ll be sure to exploit.

When she wins, training sword flying from his hands after she kicks it away, her own sword at the back of his neck, Felix only looks partially frustrated. His eyes shine with interest and a grudging respect.

The class cheers as the match is set. Felix listens to a quick rundown of his technique, of the aspects they’ll be focusing on, and gives a short nod. He dusts himself off and goes to join his classmates as Dimitri steps up.

Were Felix had been deadly flexibility, Dimitri fights with the stiffness of a nobleman. He’s powerful (the first clash of their weapons had numbed all feeling in her hands, and she had had to quickly roll out of his reach lest he catch her with the lance) but there’s a formality to his movements; he fights like the perfect textbook image of a lancer.

This won’t do.

She falls back, picking up Felix’s forgotten sword, and reverses her grip on both weapons. Dimitri hesitates as she comes at him and she can hear gasps coming from the sidelines, but she ignores them. As he scrambles to parry her, she slips one of her blades in a gap in his defense. He stills when he feels the pressure just below his ribs.

“Again,” she orders.

He falls back and gets into a fighting stance. His eyes flicker from blade to blade, unused to battling off two weapons at a time. He successfully parries the first blade but, as he maneuvers to fend off her second one, his lance breaks. It rips in three pieces with a horrible screech of metal that has him flinching in surprise. Byleth has her sword at his chin as he stares mournfully at his destroyed weapon. The rest of the class explodes in laughter.

She purses her lips. She has a lot of work ahead of her.

\---

Much later in the afternoon, when they drag themselves out of the training grounds, all winded and sporting new bruises, Byleth’s the only one not tired enough to think clearly. She’s covered in dust and sweat, but no bruises mar her skin (not for a lack of enthusiastic attempts). She sends them all to clean up, and a relaxing stay in the sauna later, she’s accosted by an onslaught of questions as soon as she enters the mess hall.

“Professor!”

“Professor, who taught you how to dual wield like that?”

“Professor, do you really think that if I focus more on magic, I can have an advantage?”

“Come on Professor, the sand was uncalled for. I think I can still feel that in my eyes.”

“That’s your own damn fault, Sylvain. If you trained more, you could have easily sidestepped that.”

“It’s always training with you, Felix. Give me a break, man, I’m trying.”

“I agree with Felix, actually. You could greatly benefit from stopping your philandering.”

“ _Your Highness_ , are you suggesting I’m a philan–”

“Shut it, Boar. Nobody’s asking _you_.”

“Oh! Professor!” It’s Mercedes that breaks through the barrage of noise. “Will you dine with us, Professor? Seeing as none of us has eaten anything yet.”

All of the bickering quiets down quite immediately at that. Instead, Byleth’s now the recipient of eight very focused pairs of eyes. The room’s crowded – the tables are buzzing with activity as students sit down in clusters to share meals and swap gossip. A light atmosphere embraces the room, warm like the flicker of the chandeliers. Not even the few dignified scholars milling about seem to disrupt the lazy cheer pervading the hall. Byleth takes it all in and realizes she’s out of her depth once more.

_Don’t even think about it!_

Sothis scowls down at her from where she lounges on the throne. The girl’s eyes glint with challenge. _How are you going to teach them if they don’t trust you? Accept the invitation._

_There are other ways to earn their trust_ , Byleth absolutely doesn’t grumble.

_I will scream in your ear the whole night – don’t you dare even consider fleeing._

She gives no outward reaction but sighs internally. “Very well.”

The Lions brighten immediately at that, resuming the whirlwind of chattering and energetic laughter. They drag her along towards an empty table, passing by other classes looking after them curiously. She meets many eyes on the way to their seats, and it gives her a sinking realization that in the coming days she will need to memorize so many _names_. Her House claims the empty table by sitting in hastily organized groups, and she’s squeezed into a seat between Dimitri and a boy she thinks is called something related to ashes.

Why is she remembering ashes? Has it got anything to do with cinders? Is it instead something fire-related, or is her mind confusing the impression she has of Sylvain? No, she was thinking of grey hair when she made the comparison, she can’t be remembering it wrong.

“Professor, which one do you like best?”

Byleth blinks, snapping out of her wondering. Annette pushes a steaming plate of something towards her while holding on to a dark soup. It smells faintly of fish, but with a buttery scent to it. The rest of her classmates are already settling down with their own plates and turning to their neighbors to chat. Byleth looks back at Annette, chastising herself for becoming so distracted. “This one’s fine, thank you.”

The ginger smiles brightly and sits down between Mercedes and Ingrid with the remaining dish. She takes a spoonful of the dark soup and immediately coughs, hands searching for the glass of water.

“Are you alright Annie?” Mercedes passes the other girl her own glass. Annette takes a long gulp and nods, cheeks still flaming from her outburst. “I guess it’s too spicy for you.”

“Do you want to swap with mine? I don’t really mind spices,” offers the grey-haired boy. Something to do with soot? No, that doesn’t sound right.

Annette coughs some more behind her closed fist before she can finally stop taking in erratic gulps of air. “Thanks, Ashe.”

Ah, that’s it. It had been close.

Byleth’s eyes wander to the other end of the table, where she catches Sylvain unashamedly smirking at a group of giggling girls. Ingrid and Felix, in an eerie display of synchronization, dig their elbows beneath the redhead’s ribs from both sides. That starts a shouting match between the three of them (two of them, actually – Felix focuses on stabbing his dinner with his fork and will only occasionally insert a snide comment here and there). Dimitri smiles at their antics with wry fondness while he continues eating. By his other side, Dedue looks mildly disapproving of the escalating discussion.

_Isn’t it curious,_ Sothis drawl as Byleth surveys the interactions going on around the table, _how they seem so cohesive and still be so isolated?_

Byleth takes a second to look past the mellow lightheartedness in the air, and when she does, she feels a sensation akin to sinking in quicksand spread out through her body. It intensifies when Dimitri finally enters the discussion and Felix flinches like he’s been burned, when Ashe hesitates a fraction too long after he’s been asked something, when Dedue has yet to say a word and nobody seems to notice. Fragments of conversations, interactions that seem innocent but make her feel like she’s running out of air. The hall is brightly lit with the dozens of chandeliers hanging from the high roofs – yet there are flickers of shadows peeking out from her student’s eyes, the phantom marks of strings keeping their smiles in place.

Byleth finds that she has no more appetite for the rest of the evening.

\---

In the silence of her room, as she writes down all of her observations on ink and fills page after page of future recommendations, Byleth feels something unfurl in her chest.

It’s warm, tentative, like the first peak of a seed bursting out of the soil.

It makes her look up, a drop of ink falling from her quill and staining the crest she had been sketching. She senses Sothis become very focused on her all of a sudden. The warmth in her chest never recedes for the whole night, staying like soothing embers nestling right next to her heart.

Neither of them gets much sleep that night – taking comfort in each other and their shared unease, quietly pondering away the implications.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This went from “Byleth is a psychologist to a bunch of depressed cats” to “Byleth’s a disaster empath with zero emotional skills”. It worked out, somehow! I’m not looking a gift horse in the mouth, no sir. 
> 
> This will update slowly at first – as soon as I finish my other fic, it's constant angst hours for Byleth.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Three whole months, huh?
> 
> Thank you to all you lovely people who are still reading this crazy AU even if it only had one lonely chapter for _so long._

She wakes up in the same way she’s been trained to in every aspect of her life: fluid and resolute, efficient to the point of bordering on the ruthless. All mercenaries have the need to be light sleepers; a universal constant that is shared by every single company she’s ever had contact with, and possibly every single mercenary group roaming Fódlan as well. It’s born out of the hyperawareness drilled into them through first-hand experience. Even during lulls between jobs, it is rare for her to get more than a few hours rest at night. She used to spend most of her sleepless nights patrolling the edge of the tents until dawn would break in the horizon. She soon learned how to move quietly when they camped out in the wildlands lest she awakes someone with her strolls.

(it had not gone well, the first time she woke up someone in the dead of night. She had been small, hands still too teeny and frail to wield a sword one-handed. The man she woke had been a new recruit. Practically a stranger to her and the veterans. She had almost been stabbed that night were it not for her quick reflexes. The commotion that ensued had woken up Father, and then she never saw that mercenary again.)

Taming one’s own nature is a necessity in their life, and sleeping tendencies are not exonerated from that training. It’s one more of the unspoken rules that prove the potential of all new recruits, if not the hardest of lessons.

The undisciplined never last long in the field.

Between the two of them, Father has always been the one to wake up first. He instilled the alertness on her since she started training to accompany him on jobs. No matter the time nor place, he has always been the first thing Byleth hears in the morning, moving quietly but purposely around their shared quarters, checking gear and doing the finances for the week. It’s a pattern that’s been the one constant in her life through the years. She’s become a creature of habit in the midst of a nomad lifestyle.

She wakes up tentatively and then all at once. 

The bed she’s on is the first thing to push her instinct into high alert. She forces her muscles to relax instead of tensing in anticipation of a confrontation. The fabric is soft and airy, delicately threaded like a fine silk. She can’t find the telltale bumps of mended patches that are so common in the roadside inns. There’s a softer fabric scrunched up under her cheek that smells faintly of flowery soap, a blanket infinitely warmer than her own coat. When she reaches slowly under the pillows, blindly looking for her dagger, the material molds around her hand with a feather-light caress. A luxurious bed, more so than they could ever afford with their current funds.

She hears hushed conversations in the distance and the clicking of boots against stone. Relaxed steps, blundering steps, not the measured cadence of their mercenaries and their ever-present readiness. These are voices she’s not familiar with and a bed she has no memory of ever sleeping on.

Her fingers grace the hilt of her dagger.

She can’t hear Father.

Byleth lunges from the bed into a ready stance. She crouches amidst the falling sheets, dagger held up and poised to strike. Her eyes flit from unfamiliar sight to unfamiliar sight – bed, wardrobe, jar of water, coat strewn over a lone chair, scribbled notes on her handwriting laying forgotten on a wooden table.

Handwritten notes about her _students_ that she forgot to press between the pages of her journal.

She sighs and sits down on the edge of the bed.

Of course, Garreg Mach. It’s been three days since she’s been hired. Three days of sleeping in a bed she can call her own, far away from the vibrant buzz of the Company in the early mornings. Three days of leaping to the offensive before her groggy mind catches up to her.

Three days of not being greeted by a gruff ‘ _good morning’_ and a hand ruffling her hair.

Byleth, theoretically, knows what melancholy feels like. An ache behind the heart (that she doesn’t have), a pressure like being on the verge of tears (that she’s unfamiliar with), and a physical need to fill the emptiness with something long forgotten (she has nothing to forget. There’s Father, the Company, and the endless road behind them. Nothing there that could help her truly _understand_.)

The Company will insist that she’s melancholic about leaving all that she’s known behind, but Byleth knows better than that.

This crawling in her skin, this restlessness that rears its head every morning. She can’t give it a name as it pushes her to pace like a caged beast. She has scarcely been in a place of impotence before a mightier force, but she thinks this constant state of vigilance that leaves her coiled in anticipation might be too much to handle.

Sothis hadn’t been able to identify what it was when they had detected it the other night. She just knew that it was there, was probably not some sort of carefully crafted hex and, no matter what she did, it wouldn’t let go. It hadn’t budged, neither to hers or Sothis’ increasingly frustrated attempts, and stuck to her center like a scar. Aside from the morning inconveniences, it hadn’t done anything similar to the day of Sothis’ awakening.

Byleth absently twirls the dagger in her hand. Giving it time to disperse had been her first strategy but that had evidently failed to yield satisfying results. Perhaps the battle today is what she needs to dispel the tension wired to her bones.

Byleth prods at a sleeping Sothis, still draped over her throne like a sunbathing cat, but receives no answer from the girl. If she’s bothered by Byleth’s turbulent thoughts, she gives no indication of it.

Given by the amount of light illuminating the room, she guesses it’s still reasonably early. She looks absently at the scattered papers over her desk as she puts on her armor. With a battle looming in the horizon, she had asked for permission to scout the fields in advance. Reconnaissance is what she did with Father before a particularly important mission. Mercenaries were not renowned for their strategic genius, but she found the logic on knowing the battlefield before a job. A cautionary measure; control the terrain and the casualties in the Company would be greatly reduced.

Seteth hadn’t been impressed with her request. He had reminded her ( _rather rudely_ , Sothis had remarked once they were back in their room) that while the Archbishop had granted her a place inside the Monastery, she was very much still in probation in his eyes. And thus, when it came to extraordinary requests, she would first need to prove to be someone that could be trusted.

(“Then why did you hire me as a professor?”

Seteth hadn’t been impressed by that question either.)

Finding herself with what could become a crippling disadvantage, she had chosen to peruse the library for any hint of the general topography of the land. The librarian ( _Thomás_ , Sothis interjected with a hint of vexation) had directed her to a few tomes that proved to be incredibly useful.

Back in her room and with a quill and parchment, she had set upon the task of planning the strategy for the upcoming battle. It had taken her most of the night – not unusual for her and yet Sothis had still been disgruntled about it – and her success rate was not what she would have wanted. There were simply too many unknowns with new fighters, never mind her complete lack of information when it came to their enemies. She had met all of the students during the first few days but that didn’t give her a clear understanding of what they were facing aside from what she remembered from the skirmish with the bandits.

_Ugh, your incessant rambling is bothersome._

Byleth blinks, refocusing on adjusting her armlets. _“Do you think I should bring Annette or Ashe to this battle?”_

Sothis covers her eyes with a hand and growls at her. _Not even an apology for waking me up, you ungrateful child._

_“Or maybe I should bring Dedue?”_

_You are on your own today,_ the girl hisses and retreats deeper into her mind. Byleth tries reaching out to her but she gets the impression of a snarl for her trouble.

When she leaves her room, still strapping the sword to her belt, there are several whispered conversations coming from the other dormitories, but any excitement about the upcoming battle is frugal as the students move on to prepare for the march. A chill pervades the morning air, a crisp scent of morning dew and the unique freshness of the mountains. Despite this, many linger around in groups with different assortments of equipment laying around, likely performing checks on their training weapons before they set out.

There’s no smell of extinguished campfire, no rowdy bickering while saddling horses, nothing that she associates with a normal pre-mission routine, and it sets her on edge. A lifetime of living on the road has instilled a certain ritual to her mornings and suddenly finding herself without it is surprisingly disconcerting. It adds to the unrest deep inside her and threatens the beginnings of a headache.

She has half a mind to search for her Father before they depart, but she has no time to lose getting lost amongst the many corridors of the Monastery.

The morning sun does nothing to quell the tension inside of her. If anything, it gives her a renewed sense of urgency. She has, at best, a couple hours to organize her class into a competent battalion for the demonstration. A class she has had no time to asses as a group, no opportunity to measure as fighters beyond what one meager training lesson had provided.

Nothing that can be done about that.

One cursory inspection doesn’t immediately make her recognize anyone milling around the dormitories, so she crosses the empty gazebos to reach the dining hall. The conversation inside is subdued in comparison to her first night, the tables sporting bleary-eyed students trying to finish their breakfast between yawns and lapses in the amicable chatter. Byleth accepts some sweet buns from the kitchen staff and surveys the room. No Blue Lions here either.

_Have you tried your classroom?_ , asks a groggy voice from the back of her mind.

_“Weren’t you going to ignore me today?”_ Byleth thinks at her even as she leaves the hall with her breakfast. They pastries are too impractical to carry them all at the same time, lest she risk losing one on the way, so she stuffs them in her inner pocket. Some of the drowsy students glance at her curiously but she doesn’t meet their stares.

_Shut up before I make you._

_“But I’m not saying anything.”_

_You know what I mean!_

There’s more movement around the classrooms. She passes some students she might have been introduced to the other day. They wave at her halfheartedly, obviously still more asleep than awake, and she raises a hand to return the salute. She has to push open the doors to her House’s classroom, letting in a gust of frigid air that rustles the few abandoned papers laying on the desks. Still no Lions.

“ _Do you think they might be asleep?_ ” She prods Sothis, who grumbles and squirms to find a comfortable position on her throne.

_They don’t seem the type to oversleep,_ the girl yawns. _Maybe they already left?_

_“Why would they? No one’s left yet.”_ They probably wouldn’t even be allowed to leave without her. She grabs one of the pastries from her pockets and takes a bite out of it.

_I don’t know, you asked. There might be someone that could help you with that._

Sothis waves unenthusiastically, and Byleth turns just in time to catch a glimpse of red disappearing into the Black Eagle’s classroom.

_“Why would she know?”_

_Would you rather spend your morning running around in circles?_

She concedes the point, heading towards the other room with quick steps. There’s low murmuring coming from inside, words and suggestions that seem to be some sort of strategic meeting, much like the one she should be having with her own students. She’s most certainly intruding upon a plan she shouldn’t be privy to, so she raps her knuckles lightly against the door before peering inside. The whispers hush as soon as the occupants recognize her standing in the doorway.

“Hello,” she says. Edelgard frowns slightly before she catches herself, schooling down whatever instinctual reaction she had before Byleth can dissect it properly. There’s only two more of her classmates inside, one shadowing the house leader and another one sitting on a table next to a pile of coats and blankets. There are some swords strewn around the remaining desks, polishing cloths and oils scattered right along with them, but no other students are working on their maintenance.

“Oh, good morning, my teacher.” Edelgard smiles lightly, but it seems forced. It makes Byleth think of her employers when it’s time to discuss payment; courteous, yet vigilant. Edelgard’s attention flicks down to the pastry but she chooses not to comment on it. “Shouldn’t you be in your own strategy meeting?”

Edelgard’s companion narrows his eyes at her and Byleth has the sudden urge to check for her knife. It’s the same sort of warning she never doubts when she’s fighting, when it’s more instinct and reaction than carefully planned movements. That’s out in the wildlands but this is a _classroom_ , a school for nobles, so she stops herself before she can follow up on the thought. Sothis makes a face at him, unhindered by her lack of visible reaction.

Byleth presses on with her mission. “Have you seen the Blue Lions?”

“Shouldn’t you know where they are?” He drawls, not content with being ignored. He crosses his arms, and she doesn’t miss the faint sparks over his gloves. A mage? Now that she focuses on it, there is a trace of ozone in the air, faint but insistent. It’s a foreboding scent and she very much hopes that they won’t allow combat magic today.

“What? Are they missing?”, says the boy on the table. He has a pair of training gloves he seems to be testing out, flexing his fingers to test their mobility. “I can help you find them!”

“ _Caspar_ ,” grumbles the pile of fabric next to him. A hand shoots out, waving in the air ineffectively until it finally finds Caspar and slaps itself over his mouth. “Let me sleep.”

Caspar chuckles and pushes the offending arm away with an elbow. “Aw, come on Lin! Where’s your enthusiasm?”

The hand retreats back into the mound and it drops slightly to the side. “Nonexistent.”

“Find some energy! You need to be in your top form for the battle!” Caspar proclaims boisterously. He nudges the pile with a foot insistently, which earns him a sleepy grunt for his trouble.

“How joyous an occasion,” deadpans the voice under the blankets.

Edelgard purses her lips and stares at the scene disapprovingly, yet she makes no move to reprimand them. She seems more frustrated than actively reproachful, which is not something Byleth was expecting. Then again, she has scarcely interacted with anyone outside her own class during her short stay, and even her own Lions she’s barely seen after their impromptu diner.

Edelgard sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose before addressing her again. “Where they not in their classroom?”

Byleth turns her attention away from the boy now pleading with the fabrics. “I just came from there.”

The house leader hums and walks towards the door, surveying the grass outside the classrooms. Some of the students lingering about glance inquisitively at her, but most avert their eyes when they find Byleth standing just behind the girl. “Then perhaps you should try the storage area by the training grounds. The Golden Deer were just leaving when we passed by, but your house might be preparing their equipment.”

Sothis throws her hands up in exasperation. _See? That was actually helpful._

“I’ll do so. Thank you,” says Byleth. She feels a faint tickle of warmth behind her sternum, and she has to dig her fingers into her coat to avoid rubbing the spot. Edelgard nods in what is a clear dismissal, strolling back inside her classroom as Byleth heads out.

“Ah, my teacher?”

She turns before crossing the archway. Edelgard looks at her with a new focused intensity in her gaze, the smile she shoots her more prominent than before, and Byleth can see the flash of cunning in her eyes. She very rarely crosses blades with opponents that have the foresight to prepare a stratagem. The nobles she knows tend to underestimate what they see as barbarians, even if those same barbarians are the ones they pay to keep their territories safe. This reaffirms, then, that Edelgard does not fall into that same category. It makes her reorganize some of the factors in her drafted strategy.

“I don’t intend to lose today.”

Perhaps the battle will be more than just an exhibition. She taps the sheath of her dagger as she tilts her head in consideration. Edelgard doesn’t squirm under her stare, which is a new development in general. “Neither do I.”

The girl observes her for a moment before giving her a sharp nod, seemingly satisfied with what she sees.

As soon as she’s out under the open sky, Byleth follows the advice and heads towards the training grounds. The students milling about are livelier than before, the chattering more animated and louder as more of them come out from the direction of the dining hall. Some of the new arrivals bring blankets along. There are several scholars crossing between faculty buildings that have to swerve to avoid the scattered piles of equipment laying about on the grass. The morning air has not yet lost its subtle chill, and Byleth guesses it’ll probably remain like that for the rest of the day. Perhaps they should take more coats with them.

“Good morning Professor!”

She acknowledges Dimitri with a small nod, and he falls into step next to her. Her house leader doesn’t seem even remotely bothered by the weather, unlike the students now bundled up in blankets around the courtyard, and she suddenly has the sinking realization that they’re from _Faerghus_. No need for coats, then.

He doesn’t really look as tired as some of the students she passed, but there’s a fine layer of dust clinging to the cuffs of his jacket. Dimitri follows her gaze to his hands and hurries to dust off the uniform. He has a low degree of success.

“What were you doing?”

Dimitri examines the rest of his jacket, peering critically at the faint trails of even more motes of dust burrowed in between the embroidery. “Digging through the storage rooms. The other Houses beat us to it, so we had to move into the cluttered areas.” 

He frowns, looking back at her with an apologetic expression. “It did not go well.”

“I was not aware that we had to fight for weapons,” Byleth remarks. She steps to the side as he ruffles his cape, dislodging what appears to be cobwebs from the fabric.

“We don’t, usually,” he admits. “But our House’s private storage only has live steel, and real weapons are not allowed today.”

He pauses. “And our inventory is mostly swords. We can’t all be swordfighters, no matter what Felix says.”

It did make sense to have them fight the demonstrations with practice equipment. It actually clears up some doubts she had. “I see.” 

“Ah, Professor,” his gaze falls to the half-eaten pastry in her hand. “We still have time until we march. Wouldn’t you prefer to finish your breakfast in the dining hall?”

“There’s no need, I can finish it on the way.” She digs around her pocket for another one. “Pastry?”

Dimitri looks at the offered sweet like he’s warring with himself. “No thank you, I’m not really that hungry.”

She stares up at him impassively until he squirms and has to look away. “Have you had breakfast yet?”

Guilty silence. Byleth shoves the pastry into his hands. He flounders with it and almost drops the sweet. With an embarrassed flush, Dimitri grudgingly accepts the bun. “Thank you.”

They pass the training grounds, ducking into the smaller hallway leading up to the storage. Byleth vaguely remembers Seteth mentioning this place, but she hasn’t had a reason to come here so far. The entryway is still far away, but she can discern someone sitting sullenly by the door.

“Professor, do you already know who is going to be joining today’s battle?”

She glances back at Dimitri, tilting her head in consideration. “Mostly. Do you know who we’ll be facing?”

He hums, crossing his arms and narrowing his eyes in contemplation. “The professors are both magic users. I would think that they will try to balance out their classes. When it comes to specifics, however, I’m afraid I wouldn’t really know enough to hazard a guess. Adrestrians are renowned mages, however. Perhaps the Black Eagles follow the same pattern.”

“A valid analysis.” He perks up at her words. “I will be adding your considerations to the plan. We’ll discuss it in the classroom.”

“Of course, Professor,” Dimitri smiles brightly. It’s a direct contraposition from Felix, who glowers at them from further on ahead. He pushes himself to his feet and Byleth frowns.

“Why is he outside?”

“Hm?” Dimitri looks forwards once more and comprehension downs on him. “Oh, Felix is allergic.”

Felix scowls at him and turns his attention back towards the open entrance. The prince’s good mood doesn’t seem affected by it.

“Very much so. He’ll die if he gets in here,” Ingrid pipes in as she comes out of the storage area. She holds a slightly beaten up sword, which she passes over to Felix.

“You are all paranoid,” he grumbles as he accepts it, brings it closer to his eyes to peer critically at the pommel, and then seethes when he fails to stifle a sneeze.

“Point proven,” Ingrid says smugly, taking the sword from him and passing it over to Dimitri, who stares at the weapon doubtfully but makes no move to return it.

Orange hair pops up behind Ingrid. “Professor! Good morning!” Annette greets cheerfully. Cobwebs cling to her shoulders, stark against the black of the fabric, and much more pronounced than the scarce trails on Dimitri’s jacket. She slips past Ingrid, who lightly dusts off the shorter girl’s shoulders.

“Have you been here for long?” Byleth eyes the training weapons lined up near Felix. They look old but in good enough condition for maybe two more missions. Perhaps three, if the metal holds. If she had had some warning about the state of their equipment, she would had gone to the armory at dawn. She should had done it regardless, like she uses to right before they part on a job. It’s uncharacteristically absentminded of her.

“Somewhat,” admits Ingrid with a shrug. “We wanted to get a head start with the equipment before we could discuss the plan.”

That’s still not enough of an answer. “Then why didn’t you inform me?”

All eyes turn to Dimitri, who seems to shrink in on himself.

“My apologies, Professor,” he almost squeaks under the stares. Sothis chuckles with glee in her head, like this is a spectacle for her enjoyment. “I–I wasn’t certain that you were awake. It felt rude to interrupt you so I gathered the class and–I’m not implying that you aren’t a capable leader and I’m sure that you would have wanted to help but–”

“What His Highness is trying to say–,” Dedue interrupts, coming out of the storage room with the rest of the Lions. “–is that we did not wish to bother you with a task that is normally left to the students.”

“It just seemed like something we should do by ourselves,” Annette adds.

“Weapon maintenance is an important part of battle preparation,” Byleth comments. They all seem to straighten slightly at her tone, eyes clear and intent despite the hour and the dust coating their uniforms. “It’s necessary to always know the condition of your inventory. A battle might be decided on the quality of the metal. In the future, I would prefer to participate directly in examinations.”

_That was almost like a lecture,_ Sothis grins mischievously. _Are you sure you’re not a better professor than you think you are?_

_“Manuela gave me pointers. They were difficult to read but they were helpful.”_

_Is that what you were thinking about all afternoon? You didn’t let me nap with all your nagging._

A whistle moves her attention away from the throne room. “Wow, Professor,” Sylvain laughs. “I think that’s the longest you’ve talked to us without a sword in the way. There might yet be hope for you.”

“And you had to go and open your mouth,” Ingrid groans. Sylvain shots her a wounded look and places a hand over his heart.

“I’m just _saying_ –”

“Is that a sweet bun, Professor?” Mercedes interrupts kindly. Ingrid shoots her a grateful look and Sylvain sighs but reluctantly relents.

Byleth blinks, looking at her breakfast. She frowns slightly when she realizes she’s forgotten it. “Half of one, yes. I picked several.”

Ingrid’s eyes shine. “Were they good?”

“I don’t know, most of them are still in my pocket,” she says, patting the space over the inner pocket.

Ashe frowns at her. He shares a brief look with Ingrid. “Pocket?”

“How many pastries do you carry?” Annette says at the same time.

She tales a peek inside her coat. “Five.”

“May I have one?”

She passes it over to Annette, who beams at her. The girl munches on the pastry and her face lights up. “Oh, are these from the kitchen–”

“Annie,” Mercedes says in a slightly reproachful tone, looking pointedly at what’s left of the sweet bun. 

Annette’s eyes go wide and she hurries to cover her mouth. “Sorry. Are these from the kitchen? Are they serving them today?”

Byleth nods but frowns as a thought occurs to her. Her eyes flit back to Dimitri and then she examines the rest of her house. “Have none of you eaten anything?”

Ashe enthusiastically raises his hand. “I did!”

“I have, I’m not an idiot.” Felix ignores the glares send his way.

Ingrid scowls, whacking him on the arm with the closest cleaning cloth. “Felix, don’t be so rude–”

“Or what?” He scoffs.

Ingrid’s glare deepens and Byleth sees the way in which Felix bristles, slipping into a defensive stance not unlike the mercenaries in the Company when someone bumps into them in a tavern. It’s her father who always handles these situations, of the two of them he always was the better communicator, but she’s not a stranger to instating discipline on new recruits. 

Byleth grabs the training sword from Dimitri and throws it at Felix. He catches it on the last second, looking at her incredulously and she takes advantage of the opportunity. “All of you, move on. Go have breakfast. We rendezvous in the classroom before we march out.”

There are some weak protests coming from the group, but she soldiers on. “Felix, come with me. We’ll sort through the equipment.”

“Ashe.” The boy shrinks down slightly under her blank stare. “Go get cleaned up and then come to the classroom.”

She’s already collecting the equipment by the time the Lions shuffle away, all wary steps and reluctant compliance. They don’t have the time to debate eating habits with today’s battle looming in the near vicinity. Equipment check should take enough time for the whole class to come back. Or it normally would, had her students not unearthed enough weapons to arm a small battalion.

Sothis looks at the dusty handles with contempt, scrunching up her nose as Byleth balances a miscellanea of training gear. By her side, Felix seems determined to carry back all of the lances on his own. Byleth notes the way his arms tremble under the weight and she almost makes a comment about pulling muscles, but he seems to anticipate her reproach, scowling and walking faster towards the classroom.

The chattering is much more animated once she gets closer to her destination. Many students are still swaddled in coats, but they are no longer blinking drowsily up to her as she passes by. The largest group argues loudly at the edge of the grass field, stridently enough that most of the smaller groups shoot them annoyed glances. She catches Claude’s eye as he goes to interject in the debate, and he winks cheekily before she disappears inside her classroom.

She piles the weapons on a table, careful not to drop them too harshly lest they dent, and starts sorting them by type. There’s not much to be said about training weapons other than they mostly do their job. Every sword she picks up has a different weight, and when she swings them, she can feel how unbalanced they’ve become after being stored for who knows how long. The bows are much of the same—the wood creaks when they are tensed, and the strings are fuzzy along the nocking point. She wasn’t expecting much from training weapons, but she can’t help the odd flash of disappointment that threatens to tug her lips down into a grimace.

Felix examines his side of the table just as carefully as she’s doing it. He passes her the lances he considers to be in good enough shape, which end up not being many, to no one’s surprise. Byleth’s not sure if he’s aware that he’s idly scratching his steadily reddening arm as he sorts through the decreasing piles of equipment.

He notices her staring just as she realizes she was doing it in the first place. “Are you going to make me sit in a corner and do nothing too?” Felix bites out, fingers curling around the grip of one of the unchecked swords.

Byleth tilts her head slightly. “If it becomes too unbearable, you can go to the infirmary.” 

She thinks it might have been the wrong thing to say. Felix bristles once more, dropping his glare to the desk and pursing his lips as if to contain whatever it is he wants to retort.

_You might want to tread carefully here_ , Sothis remarks, propping her chin on her palm and proceeding to not be helpful.

“I’m not making you leave,” she backtracks. “But you shouldn’t take unnecessary risks before the battle.”

He rolls his eyes and mouths _‘unnecessary risks’_ , going back to swinging the blade to test its balance. “You sound like Ingrid.”

“Is that why you were instigating a fight at the storage building? Because she made you sit outside?” She asks before Sothis can stop her.

_Byleth._

Glowering, Felix drops the sword in the reject pile. “It’s none of your business.”

_Byleth._

“How so?”

_Byleth!,_ hisses Sothis with frantic urgency. She feels her limbs pull taut a second before a pressure surges to knock the breath out of her. There’s a throbbing making its way at the back of her head, slow and insistent, beating to the rhythm of the pulse picking up under her skin. Her ears ring, as if she’s stood close to a Thunder spell, crescendoing towards the point where it becomes unbearable, drowning out Sothis’ voice as it coils around her mind with ease. The anxious tension festering since the morning swells and pours out of her with an intensity that’s uncomfortably close to a conscious intent. Byleth has a second to feel it reach out before it loses strength and drops. It evaporates alongside the crushing pressure as if it hadn’t happened, leaving behind only her racing pulse and a charged atmosphere in its wake. Sothis trembles on her throne and buries her hands amongst her unruly mane of green hair.

A sword flashing at the edge of her sight snaps her back to reality. Felix turns the weapon over, considering, unaffected unlike the embers crawling on her skin. She expects him to shrug off the question like she’s seen him do during the last couple days, but he hesitates. He leans against the table, free hand finding purchase on the surface to support his weight, thumb absently rubbing the grip of the weapon.

“She always feels like she needs to baby me,” he says with a light frown. He curls the words like they are fighting to spill out of him, slipping past him to be absorbed into the static coating the room. “Always. Just because I give a damn about what she thinks doesn’t mean that she can nag–”

The hand gripping the sword tightens, knuckles going white under the stress. Felix stays very still, like he’s seen an omen in the cracks of the floor, like he’s at once in the room and not, amber eyes clouded with an emotion that’s almost palpable. Byleth forces her breathing to even out until her pulse stops its erratic beating, schooling her features to reel back the instinctive response to bristle and prepare for a fight.

The charge in the room buzzes against her skin, tingling against the edges of her nerves as if to burn her. The chattering coming from beyond the classroom dims down until all she can hear is the slow drag of Felix’s nails over the wood as he closes his free hand into a fist. Byleth doesn’t know what this is, has no north to guide her since she woke up with a dagger in her hand two days ago. It’s much too similar to the pit that formed in her stomach when the world blurred and an axe unburied itself from her back. She thinks of the echo of broken glass, of the feeling of time tightening like rope under her hands until she willed it to start up once more –

The pressure on the air recedes slowly, clearing out to leave the taste of a storm on her tongue. Felix blinks, disconcerted, and looks at her with an expression that is rapidly closing off as clarity returns to him.

“Why did–”

“Professor?”

Ashe stands with a hand against the door, fidgeting in place as if considering whether to enter or flee. Byleth blinks at him and then looks back at Felix, who frowns but then shakes his head and starts muttering under his breath.

“You can finish with the bows,” she gestures weakly towards what’s left on the table. Ashe takes no offense on her distracted attempt, marching dutifully towards the bows and starting his own assessment.

She takes in a deep breath, holding it as she takes out her dagger to give it a cursory inspection, grounding herself on the familiar weight of the metal under her hands. She’s not as successful at it as she had hoped. _“Are you hurt?”_

Sothis winces, hiding her face behind her forearms. _No._

_“What was that?”_

_Byleth,_ she sounds strained. _Let’s talk about this after your battle._

_“But–”_

_Now is **not** the time, Byleth._

The sound of approaching footsteps pulls her reluctantly from the argument. She sheathes her dagger rather forcefully and digs her fingers on the fabric on her sleeves, hoping it will be enough to deter her from reaching for the weapon once more. Her mind keeps circling back to Sothis, unresponsive on her throne, and towards the familiar throb of unease now muffled somewhere inside, but she wrestles herself back to the present as the rest of her class files in.

There’s a battle to win, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to rewrite this chapter so. many. times. It's not even funny anymore. This story keeps runing away in the directions I least expect it to. I have whole chapters from _post-timeskip_ written down as well as certain scenes that I really want to reach but they are still like?? Ten chapters or so away??? Why am I like this. 
> 
> This fic will be the dead of me, but I still love it.


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